


The Hours

by sevendeadlyfun



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-13
Updated: 2009-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevendeadlyfun/pseuds/sevendeadlyfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Unseen moments just before the fall of Sunnydale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Matins

Characters: Angel, Buffy, The First

Rating: PG-13

Summary:  _“For I have been prepared for scourges and my sorrow is ever before me,” he whispers, his voice mixing with the final bells..._ Angel confronts The First and himself.

A/N: First in a planned series focusing on unseen moments before the fall of Sunnydale. This takes place after the infamous "Cookie Dough" scene in "Chosen". All translations come from "[The Latin English Study Bible](http://www.sacredbible.org/studybible/OT-21_Psalms.htm)" _._ Written for [](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/profile)[**tamingthemuse**](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/) prompt #86- _juggling_

  
He can feel the heat of her eyes, prickling against the back of his neck. It’s easier to shrug off now. Every time he leaves her, it gets a little bit easier. Thinking about that is hard; saying it out loud, unthinkable.

He thought he’d never recover from the whirlwind that is Buffy Summers. But he’s walking away and leaving her to fight an invincible enemy.  It doesn’t strike him as the sign of a particularly devoted lover. And he knows he’s not. Not devoted, not her lover, just…not.

He misses Cordy. Constantly. Her absence is an ache he can’t quite stop feeling. She made being a Champion bearable, translated his loneliness and confusion into something brighter and smarter. He wonders abruptly what she’d say to him now. He’s working for…no, he corrects himself silently, he’s running Wolfram & Hart. Evil, Inc. He tries to imagine her voice, stripping him to the bone with her truths. He fails. There’s no substitute for the real Miss Chase, she told him once and she’s right.

The slow deep tones of a distant church bell shake him from his reverie. It’s late and he’s got a long road ahead of him. He walks forward, listening to the echo of the bells. Matins, he thinks and he begins to pray. Silently, Angel recites the Psalms of his childhood.

 Non sic impii, non sic: sed tamquam pulvis, quem proiicit ventus a facie terræ and he stops. The impious will scatter as the dust on the ground. No longer dirt, but dust; a slight distinction but an important one.

 Angel grimaces, knowing that Darla was right all along. What he once was has informed all he’s become. He hadn’t been the most observant or pious man before his death, but he believed. Most sincerely he believed, more now than ever before; he’s seen Hell.

His halting, halted prayers remind him of his mother. She would shake him awake during Lent, calling him to the vigils. He thinks of her soft hands, and shuts his eyes. He can’t remember what they look like without blood on them. She had watched him, fingers swimming through slippery blood, bright red from the artery. She tried to reach him, to touch him and he roared, shoving her dying body to the floor.

He stops, eyes screwed shut and mind racing. Buffy, Darla, Cordy, Mother and all the women in between run through his mind. He can hear their voices, chiming like the bells of the Nocturne.

“Angel.” The word cuts through the confusion, the voice familiar.

“Doyle?” Angel stares, disbelieving, at the face of a dead man.

“Yeah,” the smaller man acknowledges. “Miss me?”

Angel reaches out, wanting to touch the other man. Doyle. Here in Sunnydale. But, Doyle sidesteps his hands.  
“Look,” Doyle smiles and it’s small and mean and nothing like the smiles Angel remembers. “I’m not feeling so friendly these days.  So much for the big hero, eh?”

“I didn’t want you to die,” Angel says softly. “I would have gladly died instead.”

Angel can’t look at him, can’t bear to see that familiar face so full of hate. He looks around, craning his neck to catch sight of something else. Anything else. Anything but the house that stands and watches him, a silent reproach. Angel flinches, hating the reminder of a part of himself he’s wished away a million times.

“And he finally notices,” Doyle says softly. “Lotta evil in that place.  Just how many people did Angelus kill here in Sunnydale?” There’s a thick silence, one Angel can’t bring himself to breach. He’s not sure how many bodies there are in the Crawford Street house and he’s not sure he ever wants to know.

“Gotta tell you, I wonder every day if I made the right choice sacrificing myself for you. Seeing that heap of stone and knowing what went on in there…makes a fellow wonder,” Doyle continues and there’s a aggrieved air about him now, injured innocence that Doyle never managed to capture.

He lets out a quick bark of laughter. He knows, now. It’s clear and Angel relishes the feeling, holds it tightly inside him. Clarity isn’t something he gets very often.

“Liar,” he replies conversationally. “Doyle might be ashamed of me now. He might even hate what I’ve let myself become. But he’d never regret saving the lives of the innocent.”

Doyle shimmers, body turning liquid, and in his place is Buffy. She shrugs and he watches the movement, fascinated. It’s Buffy and yet not. Now that he’s watching for it, he can see the faint taint of corruption that clings to the air around her…it.

“Oh well,” she says brightly. “It was worth a shot. I had such plans for you, Angelus. Once upon a time.”

“So did I, “ he mutters.

“I don’t really need you, though. Don’t get me wrong,” It says, flashing him a sly smirk, “I would have found some use for you. But now that I have Spike…”

It trails off, clearly intending to provoke some kind of irrational response. Angel can barely muster any interest, let alone enthusiasm. He’s tired. He fought a priest so mired in this evil that it oozed from his pores, and he can feel the sun, a few hours away but close enough to sap his remaining strength.

“Spike, huh?” he asks. “Well good luck with that. Juggling Spike and the end of days must be difficult. Plus, I wouldn’t count on him for much beyond grunt work. He’s kinda thick. Oh and when Buffy hands you your non-existent ass? Try to take it with a little grace.”

Angel turns away, walking towards his car. Leaving gets easier every time. Leave the girl, leave the mission, just leave. One day he hopes he can leave himself behind, shed the pain and the guilt like a snake sheds its skin and become whole.

“For I have been prepared for scourges and my sorrow is ever before me,” he whispers, his voice mixing with the final bells and floating over the almost empty town.

 


	2. The Hours: Lauds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Being a Watcher has added years to his years, given him an old man’s body and an old man’s cynicism._...Giles reflects.

Characters: Giles, Dawn

Rating: PG-13

Summary: _Being a Watcher has added years to his years, given him an old man’s body and an old man’s cynicism._...Giles reflects.

A/N: Second in my series focusing on unseen moments before the fall of Sunnydale. [Matins](http://sevendeadlyfun.livejournal.com/80257.html) is the first story in this series, but each story can be read as a stand-alone. This story takes place the morning after the events in "Empty Places". The poem Giles recites is from the [Unitarian Universalist Doxology](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doxology#Other_doxologies). Written for [](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/profile)[**tamingthemuse**](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/) prompt # 87- _dreams_.

 

  
Giles stands on the back porch, the heat from the steaming mug soaking into his fingers. He’s aged. Being a Watcher has added years to his years, given him an old man’s body and an old man’s cynicism. Made him into a betrayer, and not once but many times over.

He misses England and the quiet life he’d begun to build there. A life more ordinary, he’d joked to friends who asked if he was happy. He loved his flat, the rounds of that more ordinary life and the blue dawns that warmed his soul even if they chilled his body. The sunlight here is harsh, garish in a way that matches the land it falls on.

“Mad dogs and Englishman,” he muses, watching as the blue-grey sky begins to lighten incrementally. The blue-grey turns to heather and a faint lavender appears, streaky at first, but gradually stretching to cover the horizon.

He can hear soft footsteps behind him, the studied creep of a girl trying to be noticed without being noticed. He sighs as he realizes he’s able to distinguish between genuine sneaking and feigned sneaking. He’s spent too many years with only children for company. Brave children. Extraordinary children. But children nonetheless. He smiles as he turns to face the girl behind him. His children.

“Dawn,” Giles says warmly, raising his mug in greeting. “What are you doing out of bed at this hour?”

“Bad dreams,” she answers with a shrug.

He knows the meaning of a shrug. He beckons her over and she stands next to him, almost close enough to be leaning into him. He is less formal than he once was, but holding a young girl still terrifies him. He settles for a paternal pat on the shoulder, hoping to himself that it’s enough.

He and Dawn are not close. She was much too young to participate in any Slaying or training, a small girl still tied to Joyce’s apron strings when the Summers family moved to Sunnydale. It doesn’t matter that all of those memories are false. They are his memories.

“We threw her out,” Dawn whispers. “Just…tossed her aside like she was garbage.”

Giles nods because she’s right. Here in the not quite light he can admit it. He betrayed Buffy. Not last night because last night is just a continuation of a steady series of betrayals that began when he killed a god within a man. He has failed as a Watcher.

“We did what we had to do,” Giles replies and his voice sounds distant and unreal. “Buffy was becoming increasingly reckless, increasingly dangerous to the mission.”

They’ve had this conversation before. Inside their own heads, with each other, in a small group, they’ve ran through this theme a dozen times in less than six hours. He can see it so clearly, how the loss of their Slayer has fractured something inside all of them.  
“Faith can do this, right?” Dawn asks and he remembers once again how very simple it was when he was younger and the world was a challenge to be overcome and not a test of his endurance.

“Lead the Potentials? Yes, I think she can,” Giles answers her bracingly, rummaging for his best stiff upper lip. “She too is a Slayer and though she hasn’t had Buffy’s years of experience, I believe her inexperience will make her a more flexible leader.”

The sky is tinged with palest pink and the lavender has deepened to violet. Giles continues to stare at the sky, not meeting Dawn’s eyes. Soon the sun will creep out from under the blanket of the horizon, a new day fully dawned. The bright rays will bring an end to his self-pity, his morose examination of self.

“Back in the Dark Ages,” he begins, “I flouted my parents’ authority to a shocking degree.”

Dawn giggles, a pure clear sound that carries over the lightening greenery and out into the wider world. “I remember,” she tells him, “Ripper, King of the Candy Bar.”

He smiles at that, his own face softening. He’d forgotten that Dawn had been privy to he and Joyce’s ill-fated chocolate spiked adventures. He remembers now, the sight of a twelve-year old Dawn staring at him in disapproval as he broke a shop window. She’d threatened to tell her sister.

“Yes, well, some of my flouting led me to abandon the One, True, and Holy Church of England,” Giles says, pressing forward. “I threw myself into witchcraft and demons and all manner of horrid chemical experiments.”

“Drugs,” Dawn says flatly. “You can say drugs in front of me, Giles. It’s not like it’ll push me into a life of drugs. Besides, I doubt there’s so much as Yoo-hoo addict to be found in Sunnydale these days.”

“There was a poem,” Giles continues, as if she hadn’t interrupted. “ _From all that dwell below the skies let faith and hope with love arise; let beauty, truth, and good be sung through every land, by every tongue_.”

She stands next to him, silent for a moment. The silence of that porch, of the town, is pure and he revels in it. The lack of noise, with its concomitant lack of questions and demands, is a novelty that he thinks he could embrace.

“You should have said that last night,” Dawn tells him, and he knows that the note of condemnation in her voice exists only his imagination because they are all equally guilty here. “Maybe we could have let her stay.”

He shakes his head. The sun is climbing now, and the delicate colors of the dawn have given way to the strident shades of day. He can’t think of past mistakes anymore.

“No,” he tells her gently. “We couldn’t have.”  



	3. The Hours: Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Willow reaches out, threading her fingers through her lover’s strong hand. She imagines what it would be like to have strong hands._

Characters: Willow, Kennedy

Rating: PG-13

Summary: _Willow reaches out, threading her fingers through her lover’s strong hand. She imagines what it would be like to have strong hands._

Warnings: religious references

A/N: Written for [](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/profile)[**tamingthemuse**](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/) prompt #90- _colorless_. The Hebrew translations were taken from [The Jewish Publication Society Bible](http://www.breslov.com/bible/). I have modified them to avoid seeming blasphemous and also because I believe the modifications fit Willow's character. However, this fic may contain inaccuracies of the religious kind and for that I apologize.

[Previous Chapters](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sevendeadlyfun&keyword=The+Hours+%28GEN%29&filter=all)

 

Under the tree, a book open her lap, Willow feels foolish. Not the kind of foolish that comes from dating a cyber-demon or having a nervous breakdown over a crayon, but the kind of foolish that comes with being a poser. Not that she is one, she hastily assures herself. Because she’s not. A poser. She’s a real pencil spinning, world ending witch…

“Wow. That’s some fancy pencil work.” The voice, soft and very close to her ear, startles her and the pencil that had been scrawling frantically in mid-air dropped, suddenly impaled in the soft ground.

Willow shakes her head, not entirely comfortable with the woman next to her. She likes Kennedy, even if it’s clear the others don’t, and the sex between them is somewhere on the order of Holy with a side of Heck Yeah. But Kennedy isn’t a comfortable person. From her muscles to her mouth, everything about her is firm.

“Yeah,” Willow murmurs. “That’s me, just full of…fancy pencil work.”

The book on her lap is also full of…fancy pencil work. Actually, it’s not full of fancy pencil work. It’s full of colorless accounts of spells designed to destroy things. There are spells in here to conjure and destroy demons, spells to destroy other witches and spells to destroy something that Dawn has roughly translated as “sac of multitudinous cartilaginous omniscience” and that sounds worse when you break the words down to their constituent meanings, but there’s nothing in this book that deals with an evil so old it predates humanity.

“It’s early,” Kennedy offers with a solemn smile. “You can’t expect to save the world by 9 a.m.”

“No,” Willow agrees. “Saving the world by 9 a.m. is a lot. Usually we have to wait until after lunch.”

The joke falls flat because Willow isn’t joking. It’s 9 a.m. and Buffy’s gone. Buffy’s gone, and the fight is hers again and she just isn’t sure she can.

Willow reaches out, running her fingers over her lover’s strong hand. She imagines what it would be like to have strong hands. Holding Kennedy makes her feel fragile and small and inside her, she wonders if she’ll ever feel strong again. The girl she used to be is gone and the woman that sits under tree feels foolish and fragile, too fragile to fight an unstoppable evil.

She prays for strength. Her prayers are not to the Elohim of her childhood, though she stills believes deeply in the Lord of her ancestors. Her prayers are not to the Goddess of her youth, the deep wellspring of her power that she still reverences and respects. More often than not, her prayers are to Tara.

She whispers words of despair and comfort to the woman she loved and lost. Tara, whose hands weren’t strong, made Willow feel invincible. She needs that now, pleads in the prayers of her childhood to the shade of her dead lover.

_Give ear to my words, consider my meditation. Hearken unto the voice of my cry, for unto Thee do I pray. In the morning shalt Thou hear my voice; in the morning will I order my prayer unto Thee, and will look forward._

She squeezes Kennedy’s fingers, praying for a breath of air or the chirp of a bird. Some sign that Tara is here and not gone; listening to her and still loving her. The world remains stubbornly, mundanely still.

She is short a miracle. But there are strong fingers, a strong hand, twining with hers. Those strong fingers are turning the pages of the book on her lap. They are looking for a solution, a way to save the world.

Willow smiles. The strong fingers have the right idea. In the midst of the apocalypse, there is still a solution to be found.  



	4. The Hours: Sext

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A lovable fuzzy puppet as an agent of evil, bent on securing Hell on Earth through catchy songs about manners and nifty cartoon shorts with ladybugs? That’s crazy talk, even by Hellmouth standards._

Characters: Xander, Faith

Rating: PG-13

Summary: _A lovable fuzzy puppet as an agent of evil, bent on securing Hell on Earth through catchy songs about manners and nifty cartoon shorts with ladybugs? That’s crazy talk, even by Hellmouth standards._

A/N: Fourth in my series of shorts focusing on the unseen moments before the fall of Sunnydale. The first three stories are [Matins](http://sevendeadlyfun.livejournal.com/80257.html), [Lauds](http://sevendeadlyfun.livejournal.com/80440.html), and [Prime](http://sevendeadlyfun.livejournal.com/83350.html). However, each story can be read as standalone piece.

He loves the sunshine. No monsters in the sunshine. Well, maybe Cookie Monster. But who’s gonna mind a visit from Cookie Monster? He brings cookies. That’s gotta be nothing but a positive.

Unless he’s an actual demon, Xander thinks with a jolt. There were cookie demons. But a lovable fuzzy puppet as an agent of evil, bent on securing Hell on Earth through catchy songs about manners and nifty cartoon shorts with ladybugs? That’s crazy talk, even by Hellmouth standards.

The wood is warm under his hand, taking on the heat of his body as he basks in the high noon sun. High noon. That’s really what they’re facing. This is the O.K. Corral. The big showdown between the good guys and the bad guys and are they ready?

“So,” he hears from over his shoulder, “you always play with your wood on the porch?”

“Yeah,” he answers easily. “Outside in the middle of the day is actually the only place I’m not flashing this bad boy at a young girl.”

“Pretty sad state of affairs,” Faith cracks, coming to sit next to him on the steps. “How many of those you have now?”

“Well, Faith, most guys only have the one. But lucky for you, I’m fully equipped.”

“So I remember,” she shoots back and he freezes for a moment, the sand paper skidding to a halt.

He turns to look at her and she has the grace to wince. He likes that. The Faith he remembers wouldn’t have been uncomfortable, wouldn’t have noticed his discomfort.

“Glad I’m a fond memory,” he says quietly, turning back to his work. “Should have enough stakes to outfit’em all. Not that stakes will do much against the uber-vamps.”

“Maybe,” she concedes. “Never know. Some of the tiny tots could get lucky, find a weak spot.”

It’s his turn to wince. Hoping for a weak spot seems to be their only strategy these days.

“Did you ever watch Sesame Street?” he asks abruptly.

She stares at him, her face gone slack with confusion. “Uh, yeah. When I was little. Ma used to put it on for me in the mornings so she could sleep. I didn’t like it.”

Now it’s his turn to be confused. “Why not?”

“Too many damn monsters,” she says softly. “Even baby Slayers get the dreams, Xan. I liked Mister Rogers more. He had fish, a trolley, those puppets…not quite as demonic.”

He nods thoughtfully, tossing the finished stake into his growing pile. Maybe she’s right and there aren’t any nice monsters. But as he picks up the next piece of wood, he can’t stop the soft tune from escaping under his breath.

He wants to believe. He doesn’t because after everything, after Angelus and Spike and Ford and Dracula and the Bug Lady and his whole damn life here in Sunnydale, he’s never seen a nice monster. Monsters have done nice things, but he can’t say they are nice.

The porch darkens and he glances up to see thick clouds gathering. It’s coming now, close, and no theme song is going to help. But he keeps humming as he works the sandpaper along the grain of the wood. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Faith, a faint smile teasing up the corners of her lips, eyes focused on the preternaturally quiet street.

_Sunny days, sweeping the clouds away…_


	5. The Hours: Vespers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She’s given him a clean slate, forgiven him more than he ought to be forgiven. So why can’t he do the same?_

Characters: Spike

Rating: PG-13

Summary: _She’s given him a clean slate, forgiven him more than he ought to be forgiven. So why can’t he do the same?_

A/N: Blast from the past and in more ways than one. Fifth in my series of unseen moments just before the fall of Sunnydale. Takes place between _Touched_ and _End of Days_. Previous stories in the series are [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sevendeadlyfun&keyword=The+Hours+%28GEN%29&filter=all), but it's not necessary to read the entire series. Inspired by the opening hymn used during early Vespers services, [Psalm 140](http://www.newadvent.org/bible/psa140.htm).

He steps from the abandoned house just as the last working streetlamp flickers and finally lights. The futile gesture of civility draws a huff of disbelief from him. The pretense of order in Sunnydale was laughable even with the veneer of human society. Now? The valiant streetlight was nearer to tragedy than comedy.

He reaches into a pocket, lightly stroking the cool smooth metal of his lighter. He smirks as he pulls a lifted pack of fags from his pocket. The lawlessness of a city gone to the devils extends to all of them. Good, bad, indifferent, or reformed; they’re all scavengers now, picking at Sunnydale’s carcass.

Spike takes his time lighting up, pulling a long, slow drag from the cigarette. No need to rush. She’s long gone by now, just like usual.

He frowns at the thought. Bit unfair to be holding grudges over the past. She’s given him a clean slate, forgiven him more than he ought to be forgiven. So why can’t he do the same?

The easy road is that she’s a better person. The Slayer and all that, bound by sacred duty and Sesame Street and candy floss to be the better person. He tries to avoid doing things quick and dirty these days. Getting close makes the pit of his belly shake, a long low quiver that’s not quite pleasure and not quite pain. It’s an almost erotic charge and he suspects that might be the best reason to avoid the easy road

Besides, it isn’t true. History’s full of Slayers and not all of them were bloody saints. A precious few were, but that’s the person and not the power. Sanctified slayers sit cheek to cheek with slayers who just enjoyed the slaughter. Nothing about being a Slayer makes her a better person.

The light over his head blinks, a quick flicker. He looks up through narrow eyes and the light steadies, spilling a warm radiant glow around him. He drops the half-smoked cigarette and sighs.

Maybe she’s not a bigger person. Maybe it’s nothing to do with her. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s just small.  
He feels that way a lot now. It’s uncomfortable, and he knows the discomfort marks him somehow. Buffy’s seen it. Been repulsed by it.

Spike leans back, relishing the satisfying thump of his head against the thick metal of the post. The light dims. Spike grimaces in sympathy, opening his mouth to apologize before quickly snapping it shut again. What the hell does it matter? It’s a sodding lamppost. Next he’ll be sharing a cup of tea with Angel while they talk about the terrible burdens of being strong and young forever.

He snorts at the image. If only it were so simple. Sit down, pour a cuppa, and have a chat. Easy.

Except it’s not and it never has been. Nothing between them has ever been easy. He’s not even sure who he means now, who he can’t forgive and why. Even with the chip and the First’s conditioning removed, his feelings are muddled. Confused in a way he can’t begin to describe.

Buffy. He has to focus on Buffy. Angel’s a demon for another day.

The lone streetlamp begins to hum, a loud vibration shuddering through the metal and into his body. Spike steps away, moving out of the circle of light. There’s no dramatic shower of sparks, no explosion. The lamp blinks off; the shadows rush in.

Yeah, Spike thinks grimly. It’s kinda like that.

He turns to go. It can’t be about forgiveness or being the better person. The soul gives him choices and he hasn’t been making them. He’s been weak, dodging the decisions and leaving it all up to Buffy. Time to set that on its ear. Time to take a stand.

As takes his first steps back towards the Summers’ house, he hears the click and buzz of electricity. Spike smiles as the surrounding gloom lessens. He doesn’t exactly need the light, but he can’t deny it makes it easier.  



End file.
